Bell'Italiano
by Shibby-One
Summary: England is still dressed up as an Italian, and an oblivious America runs into him and doesn't realize who he is. Cue England wooing him the Italian way as he remains under cover in Italy.
1. Bell'Italiano

This was my first Hetalia kink meme de-anon. The original prompt was something along the lines of England wooing America as an Italian while still in Italy after being captured and having his fancy Italian makeover. This is the first of three parts; it's already been posted to Live Journal, but now it's coming here.

**Bell'Italiano  
><strong>

* * *

><p>This was one of those rare times England wished he were more prepared for living in Europe. He owned a small series of books, all pocket-sized, each one a different major European language. This was the middle of a continental war; why hadn't he been carrying his Italian book?<p>

But regardless, here he was, loitering against an aged brick wall, arms crossed, doing his best to blend in as an Italian. He would be stuck in the little city for at least a couple more days, and so far, he'd been able to avoid Germany and both Italian brothers.

He was dressed sharply, his hair was slicked back and he even felt like his skin was shining with a renewed glow of confidence. Now that he no longer stuck out like an eyesore among all these beautiful Italians, he had to really act the part to keep the hawk-eyed German from spotting him.

And this is where the language barrier faulted him. He only knew basic Italian, and those skills came from knowing a tidbit of Latin from his days as part of the Roman Empire. He had to be a romantic, flirtatious Italian lover if he were going to escape this country alive.

England shifted his weight uncomfortably. In the romantic sense, he was, at best, awkward. He had never been adept at the art of seduction, let alone even flirting with someone successfully. Considering the person who he'd been in love with for several hundred years never even noticed his obvious attraction was crushing enough to his romantic self-esteem.

And yet, this was war. He would have to swallow his fear and attempt to be at least friendly with the people around him, even if they were the enemy. Maybe he could find someone on holiday from England or even France, since his French was much better than his Italian.

Two girls walked by him, their eyes trained on his broad shoulders and his slim face, and they giggled between each other.

_"__Lo vedi__?__"_ one whispered to the other, and they spun their eyes on him. They giggled again when England gave them a dazzling smile, but they hurried away before he could approach.

_At least I'm attractive,_ he thought to himself. He pushed himself off the wall and walked towards the street, sliding his hands into his pockets. He had to talk to someone, _anyone_, before Germany came and—

_"Scusi! Scusi!_" someone was calling from behind him. England stopped and turned, hearing the distinctive non-Italian accent. Whoever was calling out to him wasn't an Italian, and as he lay his eyes on the stranger, his breath hitched in his throat and his eyes widened.

Inexplicably, he was looking at America. America, who was not supposed to be in Italy, he was supposed to be back in London, but no, here he was, wearing a navy blue suit with a crisp white oxford and a navy blue tie, a charcoal pea coat in his arms, his hair combed much more carefully than normal. England just gaped at him, a blush rising unknowingly on his cheeks.

_America is going to blow my cover. America is going to get us both captured. America is in Italy. America looks so incredibly dashing I don't think I can move._

"Um, _scusi mi_, er, uh—_ciao_, I'm, uh—" England stared at America as he fumbled his way through a question, and he wanted to grab America's shoulders and shake him and tell him to speak _English_, and what in Heaven's name are you _doing_ here? But as America spoke, it dawned on England that _America didn't recognize him._ America made no motion of recognition towards England; he was far too focused on speaking in Italian.

"Uh..." America trailed off, looking helpless. England blinked and realized he was waiting for a response. Should he reveal himself? America was so tactless; surely he would do something that would blow both of their covers in an instant. But surely England couldn't keep up the facade for long, right? He didn't really speak Italian, so how could he keep up the charade? But still...

This _was_ America that he was talking to. And there were such things as immigrants, he realized: not every single Italian person necessarily spoke _only_ Italian. He was sure that some Brits had, at one point, made a new home in this delightful little country.

He smiled warmly at America and extended his hand.

"Don't fuss with the Italian, mate," he said, and America's baby blues widened in shock. "I speak English, too."

"You do? But you're Italian?" America asked, bewildered. The corners of England's lips twitched into a bigger smile.

"British born, Italian raised," he said, and at that, he lifted America's hand to his lips and pecked his middle knuckle gently. America's face burned bright red, and he bit his lower lip, pulling his hand back.

"A-ah, I see. Well, could you help a fellow out?" America asked, shifting his bag from his shoulder. "I'm trying to find something, and, well... I could really use someone to help me who knows this place."

"I'm your man, _bellissimo_," England responded, his voice as sweet and seductive as he could muster. America's cheeks burned even brighter and he nodded. England grinned.

This was going to be a wonderful day.

* * *

><p>"So, what is it you're looking for, lad?" England asked, laying on a thicker accent than normal. He was surprised that America hadn't recognized his voice, and yet at the same time, he wasn't surprised in the least. If something wasn't painted neon with signs all over it, America often didn't notice the obvious.<p>

England had led them to the small café he had seen earlier, and they sat on either side of a small round table that had a mosaic on the top of it. It was spectacularly beautiful, England noted. The two sat down and ordered drinks.

America, who was taken aback by the good fortune of finding an English-speaking (handsome) Italian, seemed to have permanently flushed cheeks as he placed his bag by his feet and folded his hands on the table. England took note that his hair had a bit of sheen to its slickness—did he gel it? Normally America's sunny blonde locks were flying every which way, but even Nantucket seemed to be behaving itself today. England was trying to be suave but his heart was beating like crazy at the sight of the cleaned-up American. He was so ridiculously attractive when he tried to be.

"I-I'm looking for some_one_, actually," America stammered, coughing into his hand and giving England a somewhat weak smile. England narrowed his eyes just the slightest bit and crossed his left leg over his right knee, his slacks riding up at the ankle, exposing the top of his sock and the slightest bit of skin. America bit his lower lip, and—did he shiver?

England found himself enjoying this very, very much.

"Oh? What makes you think they're here in _Italia_?" England asked, and he thanked the waitress when she brought over their drinks. England half-mumbled _grazie_, but he did it so quickly that to America's ears, it sounded perfect and fluent.

"He said he was coming here about a week ago, and we—I—haven't heard from him," America said, and England noticed a downcast look in those beautiful eyes.

"He's not missing, is he?" England asked, and he struggled to keep the guilt from rising in his chest. Of course, America was referring to himself, to _England,_ since he had been here for a while, and he hadn't contacted any of the other Allies yet. He'd been trying to build his cover so he could escape effectively. He didn't realize he worried them so much...

"Well... I don't think so," America admitted thoughtfully. "I'm just worried, y'know? He's... he's—"

"...a good friend?" England supplied tentatively. He realized his façade was slipping, and he immediately tried to save face. Luckily America didn't notice the change in his demeanor and he just nodded.

"I guess. I'm just worried is all, he was only supposed to be gone for a couple days."

"I'm sure he's fine," England said, and he folded his hands on the table. "But if you're worried, I can try and help." America's eyes lit up at the prospect and he smiled at England. But it wasn't his normal shit-eating grin; this one was gentle, and genuine. England felt, well, touched that America would go out of his way to look for him like this. Unless, of course, he were being put up to it by the other Allies.

America sucked thoughtfully on his straw, getting the last bits of soda from the bottom of the glass, and he stood up, England following close behind.

"Now, the only thing is, you can't be so conspicuous," England said as the two wandered away from the café, leaving a few lira behind. "You make yourself seem obviously foreign."

"Do I really?" America asked, frowning. England nodded.

"You need to blend in, lad. What is your name, anyway?" England asked, curious to see what America would answer. America faltered for a moment, and then glanced at England.

"You can call me Alfred." England's lips pulled into a coy smile. "Mind if I ask your name?" Crap, England hadn't thought that far ahead. His mind racing, he literally came up with the only name he could think of—

"Arturo," he replied, and America's eyebrows rose. Was America suspicious?

"Your name is really nice," America responded, and England let out a mental sigh of relief. The two of them stopped by the same brick wall England had been loitering against earlier and he reached up, smoothing down America's hair more and restyling it somewhat. America blushed furiously, and there was a sudden tension in the air that wasn't there before. England smoothed his hair to one side of his head, trying to make it stick down less, and his fingers grazed America's forehead. There it was again—a slight movement that seemed to rush through America's body at his touch. England stole a glance at his eyes and he nearly cried out in surprise at what he saw.

Whether America knew it or not, he was very, _very_ attracted to this mysterious Italian man he'd just met. The look in America's eyes betrayed any amount of composure he was forcing himself into. It was then England noticed how America was fidgeting with his hands, how he was breathing rather quickly and how his knees were buckling somewhat.

_Am I really that attractive?_ England wondered as he finally brought his arms to his sides. America blinked furiously and looked away, but England wasn't finished yet. He reached out and fixed the lapel of America's jacket, readjusting his tie and smoothing out the fabric as he went. Every touch sent a spark down England's arms, rushing through his body like electricity. America seemed to be trying even harder not to react to England's touch, but England could tell he enjoyed the attention. England had never experience an America like this, and he found that he really enjoyed it.

England wondered for a moment just how far he could take this... and how far he'd let it actually go. He'd be lying if the prospect of wooing America into his bed wasn't an appealing thought (or one he hadn't fantasized about many times) but his conscience seemed to be kicking him in the gut. He was charming America not as England but as Arturo, a romantic British-Italian man.

Or was he? Was it really the clothes and the polished look that was wooing America? Or... or was it England himself? Were his half-assed flirting attempts actually eliciting a response? He wasn't sure. Under normal circumstances he'd never have the confidence to flirt with America so... strongly.

"There, that's better," England said, stepping back. America's cheeks were still flushed, and England found the heat rising in his face as well. America just looked so damn _good_ all dressed up like that. "So, Alfred, do you have any idea where your friend may be?" America stared at England for a moment, blinked, and then realized what England had asked and immediately turned away.

"U-um, not really. Is there... is there like, a government building or something around here?" America asked. England glanced in the direction of the prison he'd been held in earlier. He didn't really want to stray down there for fear of running to their enemies again, but he was with America now, and as England removed America's glasses... neither of them were that recognizable now.

"How much can you see without these?" England asked, pocketing the lenses. "Because if you can manage without them, I think you'd be much better off." America blinked, his eyes adjusting, and he shrugged.

"I can see alright. As long as you don't go too far away from me—not that you can't," America said suddenly. "I mean, i-if you want to walk away from me, it's okay, it's not like—"

"Hush, you'll draw attention to us," England said, and he grabbed onto America's fingers and tugged him along the road. As they wandered, England waited for America to let go, but he realized that America wasn't going to. He was applying slight pressure to England's hand, as if he thought about letting go but wasn't. England didn't mind.

"So, I can tell you're American," England said, and America glanced away. "But do not fret, I'm not a fascist. I may live here but I'm not for the Axis." America's eyes lit up, and... did his grip tighten on England's hand? "That's why I'm helping you."

"I'm glad," America said, smiling. The two wandered towards the government building but England slowed down, keeping an eye out for Germany. Although he didn't see him, that didn't mean he wasn't around somewhere.

"So, this place isn't normally very popular to be around, so we being here could potentially look dangerous," England said. He felt like a secret agent in a movie. "We must look touristy or at least not like we're trying to find a way into this building." They were in some sort of quaint little square, with a fountain in the center and little shops and stalls surrounding the walls of the square. It was adorable, to say the least. America let go of England's hand and nodded in agreement, and the two began loitering around the square.

England bought a blood orange and sat down on the edge of the fountain, peeling open the dark rind and hungrily eating the sweet flesh inside. He'd forgotten that he really hadn't eaten anything today. America was standing at a different cart, looking at what appeared to be little trinkets. He was also conversing with a young child standing next to him, although by the way America was gesturing with his hands, it was obvious that neither spoke the other's language. Somehow, that never seemed to deter America, and he just smiled at the little boy.

The pair spent the better part of the day in the square, feeding pigeons, America making friends with small Italian children, and eating the fruit from the carts periodically. The sun broke through the overcast sky every now and again, and England carefully kept himself in check. There was no way that Germany could mistake him for, well, himself if he were to notice them. And America was just unidentifiable enough, especially since Germany was used to seeing him in military attire with that bomber jacket.

The day passed pleasantly, and England found himself enjoying the casual way that America leaned against him ever so slightly, and how he even laid his head on England's shoulder in a moment of rest, only to immediately jump back up, his face flushed. There was even one point when England briefly laid his hand over America's when he sat back down, and he pretended not to notice America's smile.

It was almost like they were on some sort of really strange date. England had all but forgotten that he was there on a mission, and that America was there only to find him. As the sun began to fall on the horizon, electric lights flicked on around the square, and it was illuminated as if being lit by dozens of stars. America pulled his pea coat on as the nighttime chill set in, and England shrugged into the new coat he had to go with his new ensemble.

They had talked amicably, although England had to choose his words carefully so as not to give himself away. He didn't exactly _lie_ to America when he told him about himself; everything he told America was true, he just didn't mention that the brothers he spoke of were Scotland, Wales and Ireland, or that the funny story that happened in his childhood actually happened about six hundred years earlier, as opposed to the ten or so he had said. He noticed that America also told stories of his childhood, true stories, considering England had been there for many of them, and he also conveniently left out the fact that he was a child during the eighteenth century.

Soft music began to play from a nearby restaurant as a live jazz band started up their instruments for another evening of pleasure. It was dusk now, and England had all but forgotten that he was supposed to be putting on an act. Once he was over the initial awkwardness, he found it quite easy to be flirtatious towards America. Of course, he'd been in love with the young fool for years, and finally allowing some of those emotions to shine through was a relief.

England wondered about the nature of America's actions. Was he also acting? Trying to keep a cover? England doubted it. America wasn't subtle, every bit of his country seeped through him like water through a paper bag. He was America through and through, and although he could hide behind the façade of Alfred, he was never fully cloaked. Anyone with a trained eye could spot America immediately.

It was a good thing that Germany seemed to have given up the hunt, if only for tonight.

America leaned against England's arm, heavier than before, and laid his head on England's shoulder. The music was soft and warm, and it was almost like a lullaby, putting a comforting haze on the square. England nearly forgot that they were in the middle of a bloodthirsty war. It was like they were in the eye of the storm.

Gathering up more of his courage, England slid his arm around America's shoulders, hugging him gently, his fingers grazing the wool of his coat. America made a soft sound and shifted, but he didn't move away. England smiled in spite of himself.

America lifted his head from England's shoulder, steadying himself so he was more level with England's face. He reached up and gently touched the hand that was on his arm, stroking England's fingers in the smallest of movements. England's heart began to race. He wasn't sure if he'd ever been touched so—

He lost his train of thought as America's lips connected to his own, and he was kissing him, lips to lips, and America was _intoxicating,_ it was like kissing chocolate and hamburgers and cold air all at once, and it was more than England could have even imagined. When America pulled away gently for air, England leaned in, capturing his lips again, trying to regain America's unique taste. It was like an exquisite drug.

England pulled away and stood up, pulling America up with him. He saw the haze of attraction and want in America's eyes, and England blushed not just from arousal but from what he was seeing—had he really elicited that response from America? Him? Really?

"Come, let us go someplace more private," England said, and America followed him through the narrow streets to the small inn that he had checked into that morning. America glanced at the inn in confusion, and England suddenly remembered that he _wasn't_ England, he was _supposed_ to be an Italian citizen, and wouldn't he have his own house?

"I live in another city," England explained quickly. "I'm here visiting. I visit here often, I just have yet to get my own house here."

"That makes sense," America said, and he followed England up the spiral staircase to his room on the corner of the second floor. It overlooked the square, although when they were up higher, England realized he could see past the square and could see the vast rolling hills beyond, all the way to the edge of the sea.

England fumbled with the lock but managed to push open the door, the only light in the room coming in from outside. England clicked on the small lamp on the front table and pulled off his jacket as America clicked the door shut behind him.

No sooner had America shut the door then he was at England's back, running his arms around England's waist and kissing the back of his neck.

"You Americans, always so eager," England said, and he heard America grunt behind him.

"We're efficient," he heard America say, and England turned around to envelop the younger man in a kiss. Within the next few minutes, England had America pinned to the king sized bed, straddling his waist, wearing only the fine dress pants he'd acquired that morning. America was leaning against the oak headboard, a pillow at the small of his back, nipping England's stomach gently right above his abdomen. He had his arms wrapped around England's waist, his fingers inching into the gap between the small of England's back and his trousers, and England reached out and pulled the chord that controlled the curtains, and once they were pulled, he reeled back and got down to America's level, kissing him forcefully on the mouth, unbuttoning his crisp white dress shirt and tossing it to the floor.

"That shirt's brand new," America muttered against England's lips. "Just so y'know. S'good thing you moved it before I messed it up."

"I didn't realize you were so concerned for its safety," England said back, and America blushed. This was a side of America he'd never seen before, a softer, politer side. It was strange. Was America always like this with strangers? To be honest, he never imagined sleeping with America would be like this, he always pictured them fighting and yelling and competing for dominance, since, well, that was their everyday life anyway. But this was different, it was loving and soft and sensual, and maybe it was just because they were being swept away by the romance of Italy, but it was different then England imagined it, and the next thing he knew they were one, and he could feel America's breath on his neck. Their clothes had been completely discarded, mostly on the chair next to the bed, and the soft light from the lamp on the other side of the room made America's well-toned body glow as his muscles flexed as he moved with England.

It was perfect. That was, until—

"You sh-should speak Italian," America said in a hoarse whisper, right into his ear. England faltered. Yes, of course America would find a way to completely screw this up. Although it was England's fault for not actually knowing any real Italian. He knew that America was just in the moment and he also knew that America was known to have a bit of a language fetish—it probably came from being a melting pot—but there was no way he could get away with just some simple phrase. America was probably expecting something beautiful or poetic or even dirty, and England knew none of those things. So he did the only thing he could do to try to retain the atmosphere. He leaned down, close to America's ear and said tentatively

"...that's amore?" America sniggered into England's collarbone and let out a baleful laugh, and he opened his eyes and they shone on his sweaty face.

"You're wonderful," he said, and he drew England into a long, sensual kiss, and England knew that his answer had somehow been satisfactory. Apparently America appreciated the humor route, and England was glad when America didn't ask for any more auditory requests.

America's touches were like silk on his skin, and his heightened senses reeled at his fingertips. America had his arms wrapped around England's neck, and England could feel him running his fingers down his back and back up his spine, caressing the nape of his neck, and the back of his head, running his fingers through his tousled hair. England wondered momentarily if his cover would be lost as his hair became messier, and well, he wasn't hiding under the clothes anymore...

But those thoughts vanished from his mind as both he and America were lost to passion. He felt fingertips gripping at his back, digging into his flesh, but he didn't mind. He was here, in a beautiful country, with America beneath him, moving in sync, kissing his lips furiously, along with his neck, his chin, his nose, anywhere he could reach, and was he really responsible for the sounds of utter pleasure America was making right now? He never thought he'd be in this moment.

He was in pain just a bit, especially since he'd been unprepared, but, then again, he didn't anticipate that he'd be thrusting into America while in Italy. He also never expected to be in Italy this long, either, as a matter of fact why on earth was he still here?

But at that moment America pulled his head to his chest, and England kissed his neck, and he felt America arching his back at his touch, and his knees were bending up, and England brushed his foot against America's toes and he could feel them curling in, and America gripped his neck and moaned in the softest way, and England had his lips pressed to the side of his sweaty neck all the way through climax, and he thought he heard a muttered "Arthur" but it was probably "Arturo". England followed soon after and tried his hardest not to cry America's name and it worked, kind of, although it came out more strangled then anything. He wanted to emulate the softness of America's voice, which was toned down and hoarse with lust but, he just couldn't. He collapsed onto America's chest and ran his fingers through his hair, and he listened to America's pounding heart and heavy breathing. England leaned up and pressed a kiss to his temple, and he pushed the wet blonde hair off of his face. He groped around for the towel he'd used that morning to shower and used it to clean both of them off, and then chucked it to the floor to be dealt with later. America turned to face England with a smile.

"I'd once been told that Italians make the greatest lovers," America said, his voice still soft.

"Is it true?"

"I suppose so. Although you're British too, so maybe it's a combination of both," America replied, and England felt his heart soar. He had somewhat successful seduced America, even if he had to pretend to be a different nationality to do it. Of course, one day, if they ever did this for real, he wondered if America would wonder why having sex with England was a lot like having sex with that Italian man...

The soothing sounds of the nightlife outside were like a lullaby, and within minutes he felt the even breathing of America's chest. England couldn't stop the fatigue from washing over him, and he soon fell into an easy sleep, America's arms around him protectively, as if this were the way it was always meant to be.

"Alfred?"

"Mmmmhmm?"

"I'm leaving in the morning, so it'd be best if you could get up on the earlier side."

"Mmmhmm," America mumbled, but he was already mostly asleep. England closed his eyes and curled up, drifting off once more into a world of pleasant dreams and of America.

* * *

><p>The next morning, America woke to find himself completely alone in the large room. England's clothes were gone, and he saw a note on the bedside table.<p>

_Alfred—_

_I'm afraid I had to leave on the earlier side. Something came up. I have the room until 9 a.m., so if you wake up earlier than that, feel free to stay there. Thank you for spending time with lonely me and I'm sorry I couldn't be more helpful in locating your friend._

—_Arturo_

America shuffled out from underneath the covers and stretched, his back aching. He pulled his clothes on and grabbed his bag from the edge of the bed, buttoning his cuffs. Part of him couldn't believe that he'd really just done that, but on the other hand, part of him could. He ambled downstairs to the lobby of the inn and asked the innkeeper if they had a payphone or just a phone he could use. The woman kindly let him use the one behind the desk and he patiently dialed a number that would start ringing several countries away, in a big white building.

"This is the office of Arthur Kirkland, I'm afraid he's... out," a tentative voice said when someone picked up. America chuckled.

"It's just me, Ch—Yao," America said, realizing he was still in ear shot of the innkeeper. China faltered.

"Oh, hi, America. How are you?"

"I'm alright," America said, straightening out his sleeve. "I meant to call yesterday but something came up. I found Arthur."

"Did you now?" China said, and suddenly he was gone and his voice was replaced by France's.

"You see, that wasn't so hard, was it? Where was he, in jail?" France asked, and America could hear China's protests in the background.

"No, he was in disguise. Masquerading as an Italian." There was silence on the other end, and then France burst out laughing.

"Are you kidding me? We're at _war_ and England decides it's time to play dress-up? _Bonne Dieu._ Where is he now?"

"Somewhere, he can't have gone far, he has nowhere to go. I'll find him," America said patiently. "I think he was spying on Feliciano or something. They were here, at the very least. Both Feliciano and Ludwig. Not sure if they still are though."

"Try not to get captured. And try to drag England away from his fantasies so he can be back tonight," France said, irritation creeping into his voice. "What exactly kept you from letting us know this information yesterday?" America crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"Oh, I was just letting England have some fun, y'know," America said. "It's not every day we get to pretend to be something we're not, now is it?" America couldn't see it, but he knew France had a pensive look on his face.

"...did something happen yesterday?"

"Nope, nothing at all," America said, and with that he bid his companions farewell as he hung up and went off into the morning to—once again—locate England. Maybe he'd be England this time around, but as America wandered he wondered exactly what was it that brought out England's flirtatious side? Because he felt like speaking to that man again.

America wandered out into the bright sunlight of morning, searching for England, his body relaxed and his mind racing with thoughts of England.

_I hope I can find him again..._

* * *

><p><em>I'll post the other parts probably within the next couple of days, I just have to re-edit them.<em>


	2. Bei Segreti

Part two of three parts to this story. The title of this segment is called _Bei Segreti_and that translates to "beautiful secret" (give or take.) This was originally posted as it's own story on my Live Journal account, but it's technically the second chapter of this story. I hope you enjoy!

**Bei Segreti  
><strong>

* * *

><p>England lightly traced his finger down the edge of the porcelain tea cup, marveling at its beauty. He had been surprised to receive a tea cup with his tea in the little cafe, considering this was war, and rationing was necessary, especially in Europe. But no, here he was with a beautiful little cup and saucer set, and he was sitting at a wrought iron table outside in the crisp morning.<p>

England crossed one leg over his knee and sat back, staring at the sky. This was the same cafe that he had brought America to the day before, except this time he was England, his sandy hair was a mess and he had his olive green uniform on, belts and boots and all. He had been collecting curious looks all morning, since he wasn't dressed like the Italian or Nazi armies, but he was clearly a military man. But he paid them no heed.

He ran a hand through his hair and groaned, annoyed at how messy it looked. He had quickly washed his face that morning, but he hadn't the time to shower properly considering he wanted to escape the inn before America woke.

And now he was here, waiting for the inevitable discovery. He knew America would come back down this main road to look for him, now that "Arturo" was gone and he was no longer pre-occupied.

England turned to crane his neck down an alleyway, half expecting Germany or even Veneziano or Romano to come barreling down and capture him—

"Eng— Arthur!" a voice called, and England turned, and a beaming America was striding towards him, donned in the impeccable navy blue suit, his hair still damp from bathing. England attempted to feign surprise, and he even jumped back a little bit as America pulled out the chair from across from him and sat down, laying his bag down by the table.

"A-Alfred!" England stammered, and America grinned his trademarked grin. (England was glad America couldn't hear the pounding of his heart through his jacket.) "What are you doing here?"

"Fetching you, of course," America replied simply, and he grabbed at the menu and glanced through it. "Think they have coffee here?"

"Only espresso, which is much stronger than your watered-down trite," England responded cooly, and he saw America frown. Why was he being so crass? Arturo wouldn't have said something so hurtful.

But, alas, he was England now, and England hid behind cross words and scowls, not fancy suits and pretty words.

"Eh, I'll just get orange juice or somethin'," America muttered, and he clasped his hands and looked expectantly at England. England faltered, and the air between them stiffened. Was he going to mention his tryst with Arturo?

"Why are you wearing that?" England asked, as if America were dressed in a ratty t-shirt and old trousers, as opposed to a beautiful made, perfectly fit suit. America rolled his eyes, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

"I'm at least _pretending_ to blend in, unlike you," America said, gesturing to England's coat. "I was walking this way when I heard someone say something about some British guy, and I just connected the dots." England grunted in response.

"Well, Ludwig and Veneziano aren't here any longer, so I guess it's best to move on, then," England suggested, sending his gaze towards the table. Silence pervaded, and normally America would pepper the conversation with useless topics and idle chatter. But today, America was just sitting thoughtfully, hands folded on the table, nodding in response to England. England immediately stood up, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Well? Come on then." America followed suit and walked with England, one arm around his jacket and bag, the other shoved into his pocket. England desperately wanted to reach out and grasp his hand, curl his fingers around America's, and never let go. But alas, that was not to be.

"We're taking a bus, then a very long train ride," America said after a time. "We can sleep on the train. Have you been injured? Did you have any run-ins?"

"A few," England admitted. "But I made it out alright, obviously." Crap, there he went again. America had come all this way to rescue him—and England responds as if American forced him off holiday early. America nodded and walked briskly, and England wondered if his thoughts were preoccupied with _Arturo_ the Italian lover. Would America mention him? England wanted him to, but at the same time, he wasn't sure his heart could bear America speaking so pleasantly of someone else.

"When did you get here?" England asked tentatively.

"Yesterday morning-ish, I suppose."

"What took you so long to bloody find me then?" America faltered, sliding his hand out of his pocket and checking his watch. While staring straight ahead, he answered,

"I got pre-occupied." And the conversation ended there. The rest of the journey to the bus was in silence, and once they passed the border into Switzerland, where they got on the train, the silence fattened and solidified. England couldn't stop turning America's words around in his mind, and although he'd barely eaten that day, food looked sour and unappetizing to his twisting stomach.

_America didn't mention him_, England thought to himself as he settled next to America on the locomotive. _He didn't say a word. Isn't he always talking about the people he meets? Wouldn't he want to talk about his Italian lover?_

_Unless..._ England felt his chest tighten. _Does this happen often with America? How many human lovers has he had over the years?_ England stole a glance at America, his heart racing. America was leaning back, one elbow on the windowsill, his head in his palms, eyelids fluttering with fatigue. He wasn't his normal self like he'd been that morning; he seemed tired, and lost in thought. England ran his eyes over the curve of his cheekbones, the way his nose popped out, his wide ears, his long neck, his strong collarbone poking out beneath his suit. His blonde hair was pulled back behind his ears and his blue eyes shone from the light pouring in from the station. His lips were pulled into a neutral expression, and he was tapping his cheek with one slim finger. He was a very _very_ attractive man, and England knew full well that America has bedded other nations before.

In theory, America could get anyone he wanted. He was annoying but charming, childish yet sweet, strikingly handsome, and most of all, powerful. His strength rivaled that of great empires, and he could single-handedly change the outcome of this war. England gulped at the thought, remembering what fighting against America was like...

_He's such a gentle lover,_ England thought, and for a moment his lips perked up. _Well, a gentle lover to strangers. He wouldn't be that way with me._ He glanced at America again and noticed America's eyes were closed, and his long dark lashes were cascading along his cheeks. England sat back and faced forward, his eyes trained to America.

_I wish I was Arturo all the time,_ England thought soundly as the train pitched forward. America's eyes opened suddenly and England looked ahead, his hands tightening into fists. America's leg briefly touched England's and sent a chill down England's body. He wanted nothing more than to grab America and re-live the night before, this night and every night. He wanted to learn all about America, everything that had happened from the time of the Revolution until now. He wanted no secrets between them. He wanted love, and happiness, for once. And he wanted it with the only person who ever truly made him happy, whether America was aware of it or not.

"I met someone yesterday," America said, jarring England out of his thoughts. England turned to America, trying to keep his expression as neutral as possible.

"Oh?"

"Italian guy. British-born. He helped me out, kinda," America admitted. He was speaking softly, and England had to struggle to hear his voice over the whine of the train. "He helped disguise me more. He was also supposed to help me find you, but, it kinda went wayward." America glanced at England, his head still in his hand, and gave him a small, tired smile. "He reminded me of you, kind of."

"Oh really?" England said back. "Why, because he was a foolish old man?"

"No, because he earnestly wanted to help," America said, his smile fading. "He was an Ally."

"You can't be so sure of people you just meet these days," England muttered. America sighed.

"He was cute, too. Stylish. Kinda wish I had gotten his address or somethin'." England stiffened, clutching at the edges of his seat. Would America mention the previous night's activities? "It doesn't matter now, I guess." America trailed off and stared out the window, and England stared out the opposite window, over the people in the next seat. It was tense in the air between them, and England squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to fall asleep.

"You're lucky he wasn't an enemy," England murmured. He couldn't see him but he knew America reacted to that comment. He shifted in his seat, pulling away from England, curling up next to the window.

"I know for sure he wasn't," America whispered, but England didn't hear.

* * *

><p>About an hour passed before America woke up, the shifting of the train jerking him out of his nap. He unraveled himself from the seat, his legs hurting, and he stretched briefly. Night had fallen by now. Beside him, England was still asleep, sitting up, hands in his lap, head turned to face him. His brows were furrowed and his breathing was shallow. He didn't look very comfortable at all.<p>

America carefully moved his bag from his lap to the floor, and as slowly and gently as possible, he extended his arm and wrapped it around England, drawing the sleeping man into his arms. He laid England's head on his shoulder, stroking his cheek and forehead as he went. He gingerly brushed the blonde locks from his forehead, and laid the ghost of a kiss to his forehead. Just enough for there to be contact, but just not enough so England wouldn't notice. England made a sound, but he continued to sleep. America silently wished that England could look half as peaceful as he had the night before, when he had spend most of the night wrapped up in his arms.

"I love you, Arturo. Arthur," America whispered. "I just don't know how to tell you myself..." He wanted to say more but he couldn't will the words to grow. All day he had been trying to tell England that he _knew_ England was in disguise, he _knew_ that England had flirted with him and he had wooed him so _perfectly,_ like every dream America had ever had, and America wanted to be with him so _badly_—

England sighed softly in his sleep and America bit his lower lip.

"Maybe... maybe someday."

* * *

><p><em>I'll post the end soon. Thanks for the feedback :)<em>


	3. Bell'inizio

_Thank you all for your lovely comments! The third and final installment awaits!_

**Bell'inizio  
><strong>

* * *

><p>France knew something was up.<p>

America and England had returned without incident the day before, and they had both been in bizarre moods. America seemed preoccupied and reflective—so, basically, very unlike himself, and England was either drunk or acting like he was drunk.

France was perched on the sofa in the parlor, legs curled under him, Canada laying a golden head on his shoulder, his eyelids fluttering as he fell into sleep. France had a book in his hands, and he didn't even notice that England had stormed past him, grabbing an overcoat from his hall closet. It wasn't until he heard the _slam_ of the closet door and Canada jerked awake that France glanced up, reading glasses on the end of his nose, and he closed the book.

"England?"

"What?"

"Where are you going?"

"Out." France frowned.

"Out where?"

"What does it matter? This is _my_ country," England spat, his head popping around the corner. He buttoned his coat and slammed the heavy front door. Canada pushed his glassed up onto his forehead and rubbed his eyes. France pulled his reading glasses from his nose and placed them in the case, standing up. Canada looked up at him expectantly.

"I'll talk to that one," France said, pointing warily at the door. "You talk to your brother. See if we can get some information out of them about what happened in Italy." Canada nodded, yawning and stretching his shoulders. His pristine heather gray suit was wrinkled from where he had fallen asleep. The last meeting had gotten out only an hour earlier, and most of them were still wearing their suits.

All of the Allies were in London for a meeting that weekend, and England's disappearance had stalled their departures. So now they were all staying in one of England's personal London mansions—a lucky survivor of the Blitz.

"Alright. Where _is_ my brother anyway?" Canada inquired. France jammed his thumb over his shoulder, up into the bowels of the grandiose British mansion.

"Up there somewhere, sulking and being his not-self," France answered as he tugged his pea coat from the hall rack.

"How do you know where England went?" Canada asked as France headed for the door. France scoffed and threw his eyes to Canada.

"I've known England for over a thousand years. I know _exactly _where he is."

* * *

><p>He found the downtrodden nation at Churchill Arms, a favorite haunt. The place was rather quiet, considering it was a Sunday evening, and he spotted the man sitting at a table in a corner by himself, a squat glass between his fingers.<p>

"Arthur," he said pointedly as he plopped down in the seat across. England's eyes remained on the half-empty glass in his hands, but his eyebrows perked. He was listening. "Arthur,_mon vieil ami_, what is happening here?" England raised the glass to his lips, closed his eyes, and threw his head back, swallowing the rest of his drink in a single gulp. The ice clinked against the glass as England practically slammed the glass back down, beckoning to the bartender for another round. France grabbed the glass as the bartender placed it down, and took a whiff.

"Scotch? Classy," he said as he handed the glass over. England sipped from the glass and placed it down, finally leveling his eyes with France. They sat in silence, and France realized this would be the first time he'd really spoken to England after he and America arrived the previous evening. Something had happened between them in Italy—and as much as both nations frustrated France, they were his allies, and he depended on them. This was _war._

France was about to speak when England opened his mouth.

"America," he started, and there was a slight slur to his voice, and his accent was a bit more Cockney than normal— "is a whore." With that, he threw back the second round of scotch, and France watched with wide (and impressed) eyes as the burning liquid went down his throat with ease.

"What?" France asked. "What do you mean by that?" England wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"Did you know that, that Alfred, he fuckin'—he sleeps with random humans?" France raised an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation. "It's like, by doing that, he's just throwing our anonymity all to cock, y'know? It's like, does he even bloody _care?_" England's voice had raised several decibels too high, and was starting to gather strange looks from around the room.

"How do you know this, exactly? Did America _tell_ you this?" France inquired as he beckoned the waiter over. England threw up his hands.

"He bonked this random git in Italy, and he didn't even know who he _was_—who _does_ that besides a _whore_?" England cried, and France winced at his words. America? Sleeping with random people? That didn't sound like the America _any_ of them knew.

"You heard about this, I take it?" France asked gently. England was upset, and drunk, and France took his hand to keep him from pounding on the table and hurting himself. England rolled his eyes.

"Of course I heard about it, Francis—I was _there,_" he said, slamming a hand to his chest. He laid his chin on the edge of the table and stared straight through his empty glass. France moved his chair closer to England and placed his chin in his hand, staring at England. England refused his look and continued staring straight ahead, his teeth clenched. He'd said too much. He'd blabbed and now—now what?

"England," France asked, a tenderness in his voice that England didn't recognize, "what happened between you two in Italy?"

"Nothin'," England muttered. "Bugger off."

"No. You're _hammered._ Now—tell me. What happened when America arrived in Italy?" England was silent, contemplating his answers. But the events were swimming in his mind, as if he were looking at them through a broken periscope.

"I was in Italy," England started slowly. "And then America was in Italy."

"And?"

"And—and then 'Merica," England continued, pointing to an invisible America only he could see in the corner, "America, he came, and he found me, and I was faking, and I seduced him so _good,_ Francis." France just stared at England, trying to piece together England's nonsense.

"What? Wait, what did you do?" he asked. England raised the glass to his lips, trying to get the last remnants of scotch from the bottom of the glass. England made a confirming noise in the back of his throat and lowered the glass, but his head remained tilted back, his hair dusting his shoulders.

"I," he began, holding up a drunken fist, "seduced Alfred."

"Alright then," France replied, his hand on England's arm. England's arms dropped to the table and he closed his eyes.

"I was all dolled up as an Italian, from uh, a Brit undercover, and I had to be all savvy and suave an' flirt, like you," England began explaining, pointing at France. "And America came outta nowhere, an' I just decided to test out flirting and I got him into my _bed,_ Francis, and _let me tell you_—" he stopped, and France waited, wondering what would come next out of the Briton's mouth. England opened his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest, turning to face France.

"Tell me what?" France asked, genuinely curious as to where the story would go. A smile slid across England's face, and his nostrils flared, and he spoke.

"I shagged the _shit_ out of him, Francis," England muttered, licking his lips and rolling his eyes to the ceiling. France gulped but retained his composure, despite the image of two of his more attractive Allies going at it someplace in Italy now ingrained into his mind. He shook his head violently and grabbed onto England's shoulder. England rolled his head to the side, and it occurred to France that he may have had four or five other drinks in the time it took him to arrive at the pub.

"England, England—are you telling me you had sex with Alfred, in Italy, in, what, disguise or something?" France asked. England grinned. His voice was getting louder, and France was starting to get irritated. Drunk England was amusing, yes, but also a handful, and it was getting to the point where England would be beyond his limits. England seemed to be getting angrier as he spoke, his forehead creasing and sweat rolling down his cheeks.

"I did, I did, and he's a wanker and a whore—"

"You—"

"—I didn't raise someone so _oblivious_ and—"

"Arthur!" Francis cried, and he violently shoved England's shoulder. England blinked, jarred by the sudden movement, and suddenly felt a burst of pain and nausea rush through his head like a bullet. He winced and placed a hand to his head. "Arthur, you're just talking nonsense now—so you slept with Alfred, in Italy, and now _you're_ speaking ill of _him_?" England faltered.

"He—he has _sex_ with random _humans_—"

"Do you really think _Alfred_ is that oblivious?" France asked incredulously. England bit his lower lip. "Arthur, _you raised him._ He is just as oblivious as you, and he is certainly _not_ a _whore_—did you ever stop to think that maybe he knew that it was you?" England licked his lips again, and suddenly realized how chapped they were. They stung.

"You—you are so blind," Francis said, and his tone softened. "You're a pathetic drunkard of a man right now, but I promise you, Alfred is no more of a whore than you. He is much more _reserved_ than that—trust me, I know." England said nothing in response, only continued to watch France as if he were observing a painting.

"I know you have all these—these awkward, unrequited, residual feelings, Arthur—sometimes I feel as if you never grew past being a teenager," France admitted, chuckling to himself. "But this is war time. You or I could be gone in any moment, hell, we thought we'd lost you for a while when you didn't return when you had planned. We've already come close to losing you once," France said, and England's eyes widened the smallest bit. "I know you probably regret what you did, but if it seemed right... maybe now is the time to finally act upon it."

"It's common, for young men going off to war to have shotgun weddings with their sweethearts, just in case they don't come back," France continued. England wondered in a moment of clarity if this was something France was making up or if it were true. France extended his hand and ran his fingertips down England's cheek, and the motion was so sudden and so gentle that England jerked from the touch. But it did make him feel calmer.

England breathed deeply, his brain swimming. Could... could America actually want _him?_ Admittedly, England's disguise wasn't foolproof by any means—any normal person who knew England well would probably see right through it. So... did that mean America had?

"I—I don't..." England murmured, and he banged his elbows to the table and put his head in his hands. "I don't fuckin' know, Francis."

"I know," France replied, putting a hand on the nape of England's neck. "But you _do_ know that you've had feelings for America for a very long time."

"...yes."

"And you know—don't give me that look—you know that America isn't as daft as you always say he is. Maybe he was seduced by _you,_ and not whoever you said you were." England closed his eyes and listened to the throbbing of his head.

"Maybe you just gave him the opportunity he'd been waiting for."

* * *

><p>"Al?"<p>

There was no answer. Canada frowned at the door, and he knocked again, harder this time. "Alfred, I know you're in there."

"You're wrong," a voice called, and Canada glanced around the hallway. America's voice had come from another place in the hall—the only other open door was to England's den, just a few doors down. Canada wandered to the doorway and saw America sitting in England's chair, a map and notebooks on the table before him. Canada's eyes widened as he realized that America was actually doing something related to the war—America, doing reputable work?

But he then noticed that America had a book up to his face, his glasses on top of his head. His navy blue suit was wrinkled at the waist and his cream-colored pressed oxford was unbuttoned, revealing a wife beater underneath, with his pale yellow tie discarded on the back of the chair. Canada walked in and sat down on the coffee table, pushing aside the stack of notebooks America had been scribbling in.

"Whatcha reading?" Canada asked, sliding his arms out of his own suit jacket. He smiled to himself as he placed it on his lap—they were wearing the exact same outfit in different colors.

America lowered the book and turned its cover to face Canada.

"_Utopia_?"

"Thomas More," America offered, pulling the book back to his face. "One of England's favorites."

Canada sighed and rubbed his face with his hand.

"So, I'm just gonna be blunt about this," Canada said, raising his eyes to meet America's. America glanced away, his eyes trained on the book, but his eyebrows were arched and his head was bent forwards. He was listening. Canada breathed deeply, unsure if he wanted to know what could have possibly happened to seemingly shatter the shaky foundation England and America had formed. But he had to help, somehow. "What happened between you and England in Italy?"

"What happened?" America repeated, turning a page. "What happened is I had an amazing time with an amazing man." Canada swallowed.

"What the fuck does _that_ mean?" he asked, and America looked up, shocked by the outburst. America lowered the book to his lap.

"Y'know how I said England was dressed up like an Italian?" he said, pulling his knees into his chest. "He saw me and started totally hitting on me." Canada stared, his mouth gaping just a bit.

"What? England? Really?" Canada asked. America shifted.

"Oh, he so was. He came over, and he was all suave—"

"—you know what that words means?"

"—and he was acting all funny, and, well at first I didn't recognize him as England, I just thought he was some random guy, but I figured it out pretty quick but he wasn't saying anything about knowing me so I just pretended not to know who he was. And he flirted with me and took me out and bought me things and Mattie—holy God, it was just like how I always imagined it. Except with less yelling." Canada had his hands to his temple, rubbing circles around his throbbing head. What was his brother telling him, exactly?

"So... so that's it? England flirted with you and you just went along with it?" Canada said. America half-shrugged, half-nodded and went back to his book.

"Oh and we had sex, too."

"WHAT?" Canada cried, and at that he jumped up. America, startled, lowered the book once more. "You did _what? _Did you trick him?"

"No, he was totally coming onto _me!_" America replied. "It was _his_ idea to go back to his hotel—"

"And whose idea was it to have sex? Yours I bet, your libido is _impossible,_" Canada spat, folding his arms and turning away. "Alfred you can't just start sleeping with all our Allies, this situation is fucked up as it is— it's not like you and England have a normal relationship, you know."

"Yeah, because _nations_ have _normal relationships with anyone!_" America cried, and they were both standing, glaring at each other. He'd expected Canada to laugh, or be annoyed, but not to be angry.

"You—you _idiot_! This is _war_, don't you get it? You obviously did something to upset England, and who knows, maybe you just broke up part of the strength we had from _fighting against the Axis_, remember that detail, Alfred?" Canada asked, standing right in front of his brother. America just stared back, his eyes stony. "_Ugh_, just—do you do whatever you want all the time? What is this, a party to you? You were sent to Italy to _save England_, not to _fuck_ him, and now he's upset, and this is such a _messed up_ group of Allies we have I'm surprised we're even somewhat winning, and _cessez-vous jamais de penser à vos actions?_" Both America and Canada jerked back as Canada spoke, and Canada closed his mouth, licking his lips. He only slipped into French when he was very upset.

America sat back down in England's chair, leaning back and closing his eyes.

"Well, I don't know what I did, I only did what he wanted me to do," America said, but he sounded tired. Defeated. "I... I forgot, you know. Through the day, that he wasn't supposed to be England. He was just... I know he was flirting and that's very unlike England but, he was just so _England_ about it, and I—I just wanted to pretend." Canada sat down on the coffee table, leaning forwards, breathing slowly through his nose. "I wanted to pretend that there was no war, and that there was no wall between me and England, and we were happy. Together."

"You love him so much," Canada said softly. America's eyes were still closed, but his fists were clenched. "Alfred, you break my heart sometimes."

"I'll talk to England. I'll set this straight," America offered, opening his eyes. "And we'll all move on like none of this happened. Because this is war, right?"

Canada didn't reply.

* * *

><p>America opened his bedroom door as slowly as possible, knowing that the old house creaked and groaned under every minute movement. It was midnight, and he had spent the last hour tossing and turning in his bed, staring at the wall. He just had to talk to England.<p>

He'd heard Canada, France and Russia helping England into his room, which was on the floor below. He heard England muttering nonsensically, and he knew (oh he knew) that England was drunk. But he didn't sound hammered, so he guessed that France got him somewhat sobered up at the bar.

America crept down the stairs, each one creaking slightly as he stepped, and he stopped at England's room, listening to see if he was asleep. When he didn't hear anything, he pushed the door open.

The room was light, since the lamp next to his bed was still turned on. England was lying on his side, on top of his covers, still wearing his white suit. His shoes were even still on. His face was pink and his hair was mussed, and his sleeves were rolled up. He looked peaceful, nearly angelic, completely asleep like that. America closed the door and walked over to the bed, stopping at the foot to remove England's shoes.

After he did so, he gently tugged each of England's arms out of his suit jacket, rolling him over as slowly as possible so he could get it off. He shook out the jacket and hung it on the back of a chair, and then he perched himself on the edge of the bed. England was now lying on his back, his face turned slightly away from the younger blonde, one arm across his chest.

America resisted the urge to reach out and touch his face, and instead put his own hands in his lap and looked solemnly at England.

"I'm sorry, England," he said. "I'm sorry for whatever I did to hurt you." England's brow furrowed and he took a deep breath, moving slightly.

Maybe it was because he was tired, and England just looked so peaceful and beautiful, lying there in the dim glow of the light, and America just loved him _so much_ it hurt, but America leaned down and laid a kiss on England's cheek.

England's eyes fluttered opened and he grunted, turning to face America, who pulled away quickly, his cheeks heating up to a burn.

"Wha... where am I?" England asked. He sounded groggy.

"You're in your house, England," America answered. "With us."

"Oh," England replied. He stretched his shoulders and rubbed his face with his hands. "Am I drunk?"

"I dunno, are you? Because you _were_," America explained. The two sat in silence, America hovering over England and England looking up at him through lidded eyes. He was still partially drunk, and very tired. England looked at him expectantly, waiting for America to say something.

England's own heart was thumping so fast he thought he would pass out, and he kind of wish he could, just so he wouldn't have to talk to America in such a state. But America wasn't moving, and the look in his eyes was so painfully sincere...

"America—"

"I knew it was you," America blurted out suddenly, cutting England off. "Arturo. I knew he was you." England stared at him, blinking. His brain had taken the information but processing it was difficult, and for a moment he had no idea what America was talking about.

"What? What do you... _oh_," England said, and he stiffened, and his blush matched the one gracing America's cheeks. "Oh, you mean, in I-Italy..."

"Yeah," America replied, and he leaned back, biting his lower lip. England pushed himself up on his pillows, but his head protested the sudden movement. It hurt too much to move so much.

But England wasn't even paying attention to the pain. _America knew? He knew he was Arturo? For how long?_

They sat in a strained silence, America fiddling with the duvet. England just stared at America, waiting for something, his heart pounding, his throat dry. Was that it? Was that all America was going to say? Although he supposed he should say something, as well.

"I didn't realize you knew," England said, and his voice was hoarse. "Or... well. You surprised me, I suppose."

"Your disguise was good, I just know you too well," America offered, and England couldn't stop the corners of his mouth from tugging up into a small smile.

"Um, right. So..."

"So..." America wasn't sure what to say. _So I let you seduce me? So I'm completely in love with you, so much that it hurts? So I pretended we were together, just for one day, to see what it was like? _His palms were clammy and he felt like he had one of England's terrible scones shoved down his throat.

He couldn't take it anymore.

"So I let you seduce me," America said, and England's eyes widened. "Because I wanted you to." England was so shocked, he couldn't say anything, even though his muddled brain was flooded with pure ecstasy.

"Y-you what?"

"I wanted you to—I've always wanted you to," America said, his voice growing soft. "England—Arthur, I-I just... you were gone. We had no idea what happened to you. And I was afraid that, with this war... you've almost died once," America said, and for the first time in several hundred years, England saw a look of dread and fear graze America's eyes. England licked his lips and leaned his head back against the headboard. "I was afraid that something had happened to you, and when you were alright, I just wanted... I wanted to experience what it was like."

"What _what_ was like?"

"What it was like to be with you," America explained. "Because in any moment, you could be gone. I could be gone. And... I just had to know. Because I care about you, a lot." Silence flooded the room and England's ears were pounding as the blood rushed through them. America avoided his gaze and was looking back down at the duvet, plucking at a loose thread. England's heart swelled.

"Alfred?" America looked up, and saw the smile on England's face. "Can you come here?" America didn't move at first, but then he slid off the bed and walked to the head, where England beckoned him down to his level.

"What—" but America never finished his question. In one swift movement, England cupped his chin in his hand and pulled his lips to his, and they were kissing, and there were no lies or facades between them this time. They parted, and America blinked in confusion as England leaned his head back.

"Oh, bollocks, my head, shouldn'ta moved so fast..." England muttered, squeezing jus eyes shut. America just stood beside his bed, stunned into silence. England re-opened his eyes and looked up at him as he placed his hand over America's.

"I love you, too," England said, in a voice just above a whisper. A smile eased across his face, and eventually, America returned it. It was an odd set of circumstances.

Tentatively, America bent at the waist, and leaned over England. He bit his lower lip, looked down at his hands (which were placed at either side of England's waist) and looked back up. England reached out, placed a hand on his cheek, and drew their faces together.

The only sound in the room was a dim hum from the lamp in the corner, and their breath as they parted again, only this time they came back together, and England was drunk and America was enamored but it didn't matter. America hummed against England's lips, and he didn't realize until then how much he had been yearning for England's touch once more. That first taste in Italy hadn't really been enough to satiate him, and now he was climbing onto the bed, straddling England's hips, and England wrapped his arms around America's neck and rubbed his fingers between the fabric of America's shirt.

They pulled apart again, and this time America didn't go back in for more, but he hovered before England, eyes closed, breathing him in. England rubbed the back of his neck.

"I'm still really, really drunk," England muttered. America chuckled. "And, we have to, y'know, talk about this. There are still—"

"I know," America answered, "I know, I didn't expect—"

"I'm glad though," England whispered. "I thought you were attracted to something that was completely different than you."

"But that_ was_ you," America protested. He leaned back, sliding off the bed (much to his brain's protests), and helped England lie back down again. He stroked England's forehead and ran his forefinger over England's flushed cheeks as England looked up at him. "That was you. Being romantic."

"Something I haven't much experience in," England mumbled.

"You'll become more experience," America promised, and he leaned in to kiss England's forehead gingerly. "With me." England smiled, and as cheesy as the line was, it made him feel warm and safe. There was something in this war that, perhaps, he could believe in.

"_Ti amo,_" Alfred whispered against his forehead.

"_Anche__io ti amo_," came the reply.

* * *

><p><em>Bell'inizio roughly translates to "beautiful beginning". <em>


End file.
